


Holes

by samidha



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, H/C Meme Fill, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Nurses, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2018-12-14 11:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11781933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: On his way to Lisa's, Dean loses the last several years of his memory and the last thing he can remember is his dad is missing and he has to get to Sam.





	Holes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a LJ user.

He wakes in a white, white room and the first thing he feels is the tube in his nose, though he can’t place the sensation as anything he’s known before. He itches everywhere that the medical equipment touches him, and he feels heavy and wrong. Weighed down.

He falls back asleep almost right away: too much to process, too much he has no idea what to do with.

*~*~*

The next time he wakes, it’s easier. He swims up to consciousness and he stays there.

”Good morning!” a woman in scrubs crows at him, and he-- Scrubs. Tubes. Oh, fuck.

He has to get to Sam, he was supposed to get to Sam, he has a _really_ bad feeling about _Sam_ and he needs to go _now_ and he can’t be here.

As soon as the woman leaves his room he is expertly ripping out his IV.

The breathing tube, though, that may take more work.

Fuck.

*~*~*

Three days. He’s lost three days. And this feeling about Sam, it is _bad_. Death omen bad. Sure, he has the story about being worried about Dad, and he is, but mostly he needs Sam in front of his face right fucking now because it was coming up on November 2 and November 2 is never kind and this one promises to be-- to be terrible.

That is if he believes his dreams, which would be saying a lot except this time...

He thinks, hysterically, of Feivel in _American Tale_ , the movie that was so good at keeping Sam calm as a little kid, so that they knicked the VHS from a library (twice), one of the only things they carried with them in the bottom of Sam’s duffel, like liquid gold that the kid watched every afternoon for years, wearing through tapes and assuring that Dean knew every word of the damn movie to this day.

_It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star._

Dean doesn’t want to share this wish with Sam, doesn’t want to think about this, about Sam’s nightmares as a kid, all in Technicolor, and how his dreams lately have been too bright and too real (too right) and how he doesn’t want to have this in common with anyone, least of all Sam, because if he has this in common with Sam they are both gonna be gibbering messes and someone could be about to die and he doesn’t know if it-- and he doesn’t want to know, he just has to get. To. Sam. Right now.

Only it’s been days in the goddamn _hospital_ and everything is running together and--

And he doesn’t have any idea where his baby is and he has, _oh_ , he has his cell phone, stashed with his boots and the bloody clothes he came in with and--

He dials his voicemail as he stands in the parking lot, trying not to freak out.

And he has Sam’s voice. Like manna from heaven, like love, like family, like everything.

_Hey, Dean. So I know you and I know what this is like because I was there, man, and you’re probably second-guessing everything right now, but just... don’t. Or at least try not to. Have a beer for me if you want and remember this was all part of the plan, right?_

_Look out for yourself. Live, okay? You should really live this time. You can do it. I have faith in you. Love you, Dean. Don’t try and bust me out. I’m ready._

And what the _fuck_ was that? Bust Sam out? Was he--

He snags a newspaper from a nearby bin, Employment News Weekly, but he just needs the date and the date is--

2010.

He can’t breathe, he can’t swallow, he can’t. He just.

2010.

The date doesn’t matter except the year and Sam is in jail or-- Actually, Sam being in jail might be kind of funny but he has this itch under his skin that tells him it’s worse, it’s...

He scrolls through his phone. Sam (if Sam’s in jail he won’t answer his phone but Dean is going to try it anyway, he knows he is.) Bobby. Lisa. That’s all he’s got in there. No Dad. No Pastor Jim. Why the fuck doesn’t he have Pastor Jim’s number? Ellen. Who the hell is that? He calls her anyway in sudden curiosity. Disconnected.

Bobby might be Uncle Bobby, should be Uncle Bobby, and Dean will get there but first he calls Sam.

 _Hey, Dean. Knew you’d call, so I paid in advance on this number. Look. Stop freaking out. You’re strong, stronger than you know, you’re the strongest person_ I _know, and you’re the reason I said yes to Lucifer, okay? I want you to have the world. You deserve it. You all deserve it. Just, please. Don’t try to bring me back. I know you promised but I also know what a bitch that promise is. I can’t come back. This is what I could do, Dean. It’s for the world, but mostly it’s for you._

Dean thought he couldn’t breathe before. Yeah. Uh. This is worse. This is an elephant on his chest, his legs shaking, his body not holding him up anymore because something-- something-- _SAM_. He folds to the ground, wheezing, choking, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling over and he tries to cry, he actually tries to cry because Sam-- Sam is _gone_ , so far gone and Dean has no idea what happened but it has to be real, it’s two-thousand-fucking-ten and Dean doesn’t remember the last almost six years and he’s lost his brother to this fight and he had _one job_ and he had one person he loved more than life itself, more than anything, more than-- and Sam is gone.

He curls in on himself, head between his knees, gasping, harsh sobs tearing at his throat and he thinks he will stop breathing if he just-- sits-- here. He might never move again. That would be all right. It would never be enough, nothing is enough to contain this grief. He could cry until his lungs burst.

 _Live? You want me to live? With this? Fuck you. Oh, Jesus, God, fuck you, Sam. How dare you leave me. How dare you fucking...._ Whatever _you did. How dare you._

He thinks about the three goddamn numbers in his phone, only three, and he hates this life more than anything, he knows it has destroyed him, destroyed his family.

Destroyed Sam.

Dean can’t live in a world without Sam. It’s as plain as day, the one immutable fact of the universe. You’re supposed to be outlived by the people you raise, not-- not--

Not this. Oh, God, not this.

Impossibly, his phone chirps, proof that the world is going on around him. He presses talk without looking at the display. _Please be a joke, be a lie, be anything, let this be Sam..._

 _How you doin’, boy?_ comes the gruff voice on the other end of the line, _You make it to Lisa’s?_ and Dean doesn’t speak, is barely breathing.

_Thought you might not have. Listen, boy. Come home a while._

Dean forces himself to move without thinking. 

A memory comes to him, a quiet one, of Sam, of course of Sam.

_They don’t know the things that we know, right?_

He is a Winchester. He’s going to find a way. To Sam. It’s the only way he can live with himself.


End file.
